


Chi Ha Pazienza Vede la sua Vendetta

by placentalmammal



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blind Date, Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 01:45:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5229170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassandra isn't happy about how her blind date is going, but she's already eaten all the breadsticks and drunk half a pitcher of water. She's committed, she can't just leave. A gift for Cassi, the love of my life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chi Ha Pazienza Vede la sua Vendetta

La Figa Pelosa was a trendy, midrange Italian place. The owner was a friend of Varric’s, and he’d managed to secure a reservation for Cassandra. “I’m setting you up with a friend,” he said. “Consider it an apology for my small role in the whole Hawke fiasco.”

“I don’t know what you think I’d have in common with any of your friends,” Cassandra said, phone cradled between her ear and shoulder. She typed the restaurant into Yelp and scanned the reviews, frowning at the pictures of the dining room. “And I’m not free until after nine all this week.”

“Perfect!” he said. “Dinner and drinks at 9:30. It’ll be great. Fireworks, I promise.” He hesitated. “He’ll probably be late. He’s just that kind of person,” and then he hung up without allowing her an opportunity to protest. Cassandra glared at her phone and thumbed the ‘end call’ button with more force than necessary, quietly longing for the days of slamming the receiver into the cradle.

 

\---

Five hours later, Cassandra was thoroughly lost in an upscale, hipstery neighborhood. Every block had a painfully hip bar or a bicycle repair shop, and none of the streets seemed to meet at right angles. Varric had come by around 6:00 to pester her, and he’d written the address on the back of a business card (someone else’s--Varric didn’t have business cards, on the grounds that everybody he wanted to talk to already knew how to reach him). She had to stop twice to ask for directions, and each time had ended up more lost than before. She spent fifteen minutes idling in random parking lots, cursing at her GPS while it recalculated her route. It was pure, dumb luck that finally landed her on the correct block after nearly an hour of aimless driving. She circled the block for another ten minutes, searching in vain for a parking space.

She didn’t reach La Figa Pelosa until 9:43, barreling through the milling crowd in her rush to reach the restaurant and get to work salvaging the evening. A visibly bored maître d' guided her through an overcrowded dining room to a secluded table underneath a silk print of a graffitied dumpster. Cassandra eyed the artwork with distaste and nodded curtly when the maître d' told her that “someone will be right with you.”

The table wobbled. Cassandra busied herself trying to level it until her waiter, an undergrad with acne and greasy blond hair, arrived with two menus, a pitcher of water, and a basket of bread sticks. He filled her water glass and chattered inanely about the day’s specials, ending on a nonsensical tangent about rabbits. “They love alfalfa,” he said sincerely. “But it’s too rich and it makes their tummies hurt.”

Cassandra stared at him for a long, hard moment. He seemed undeterred. “I am waiting for someone,” she said, slowly, in case he didn’t understand. “I’ll order when he gets here.”

The waiter’s expression brightened, like someone had turned on a lightswitch behind his eyes. “You’re on a date!” he cried, delightedly.

Heads turned at nearby tables, her fellow diners wondering why the waiter was shouting. Cassandra groaned inwardly. “I am,” she said, returning her attention to the menu. “Thank you.”

The waiter failed to notice her unspoken dismissal and peered around, frowning. “But you’re alone.”

She closed her eyes and breathed out through her nose, counting to ten. “I was told that he might be running late,” she said. “I’m sure he will be here presently.”

“My name is Cole,” he said. “I can keep you company until he gets here!”

Cole sat in the chair opposite hers before she had a chance to protest. “Oh, you’re too kind,” she said. “It’s really not necessary.”

He showed no signs of moving. “Don’t you have other tables?” she said, desperately. “I don’t want to make your other customers wait.”

“It’s alright,” he said brightly. “Nobody else is sitting in my section.”

Cassandra bit her tongue before she could say “I wonder why,” and break the poor boy’s heart. He chattered happily about rabbits (he owned three: Samwise, Alfred, and Coffey) while Cassandra ground her teeth and focused intently on the menu. The bread sticks were delicious, almost, but not quite, worth listening to the waiter ramble about his pet rabbits. She was developing a pounding headache and the wine list was calling her name.

She was saved by the arrival of her mystery date, nearly forty-five minutes late. Cole stopped mid-sentence and looked up, expression brightening, and Cassandra twisted around in her seat and caught her first glimpse of Varric’s friend. He was bald as a hard-boiled egg and wearing an enormous scarf and an army-surplus jacket with leather patches on the elbows. His clothing was ill-fitting, like he dressed exclusively in other people’s castoffs.

“Professor Solas!” Cole cried. “You’re here!” He got to his feet and shook the man’s hand, excitedly pumping his arm.

Solas looked distinctly amused. “You must be Cassandra,” he said, taking the seat opposite hers. “Varric has told me much about you.” He unwound his scarf and set it on the table, and the scent of patchouli oil wafted across the table. “Cole is my student at the university,” he said, by way of explanation. “Have you ordered yet?”

Cassandra shook her head. “I was waiting for you,” she said, trying very hard not to let her irritation creep into her voice.

“Ah,” he said, picking up a menu. “Cole, I’ll think we’ll start with a bottle of the Fiano.”

She cheered inwardly as the waiter retreated to the kitchen. “Have you eaten here before?”

“I haven’t, though I’ve heard their bread sticks are excellent.” He glanced at the empty bread basket. “I’ll have to ask Cole to bring some more out.”

Her stomach growled traitorously. “I was planning to get the carbonara,” she said, setting the menu down.

Solas frowned. “Varric didn’t tell me you weren’t vegan,” he said, a note of accusation in his voice.

She stared at him a moment, unsure how to respond. “Is that a problem?” she said, finally.

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” he said, his expression suggesting the exact opposite. “To each their own.”

She stared at him for a moment, biting the inside of her cheek. The awkward silence was interrupted by Cole, arriving with the wine and a pair of glasses. He poured and talked about rabbits for another thirty seconds before Solas asked him for another basket of bread sticks and he scurried off again, empty tray pressed to his chest.

“So,” she said slowly. “What do you teach?”

He glanced up, brow furrowed in confusion. “Oh! You mean what do I _do_.” He took a sip of wine and stared into the mid-distance for a moment. “I lecture, of course, but I consider myself an academic rather than an educator. I write novels.”

“What about?” Cassandra said, stomach sinking.

He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter, smiling benevolently. “My current project is really about what it means to be a man,” he explained. “It’s almost autobiographical, in a way. I follow my protagonist, Solomon, from his first sexual encounter at fifteen until his death at fifty-seven. It’s really quite transcendental, I think. Ambitious.”

Cole brought out the second basket of breadsticks and set them on the table reverently. He hovered for a moment, listening to Solas discuss his protagonist’s trials and successes. “It’s actually a tragedy,” he droned, “Because the women in his life never really _understand_ him.” He set his wineglass down and drummed his fingers against the table top. “Really, he’s a Holden Caulfield for the modern age.”

Cassandra refilled her own wineglass and took another breadstick, glancing over her shoulder at the door. Cole was too enraptured to take their orders, she could tell Solas that she hadn’t put enough quarters in the meter and make her escape.

“Ultimately,” he said, “his emergent sexuality is just a metaphor for the greater loss of innocence.”

“Sorry, I have to go right now,” she said, grabbing a final bread stick for the road. “Something came up.”

 

\---

Out on the street, she fished her phone out of her purse and dialed Varric’s number. He picked up on the second ring, stifling laughter.

“How was your date?” he said, voice shaking with unrestrained glee.

She swallowed a mouthful of bread stick. “Firstly, you are a horrid little man. Secondly--”

Varric’s laughter drowned out the rest of her words, and Cassandra hung up in a blind fury. She stared down at the phone in her fist, wondering if work would buy a replacement if she ‘lost’ hers through a plate-glass window. The screen went dark, and she sighed and slipped the phone back into her bag. She’d get Varric back, somehow. She just had to think of something.


End file.
